


recovery

by whisperedwords



Series: YingYang!verse [5]
Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: But the game is over. Done. In the books. Preseason is preseason.(also known as "The One Where Whisperedwords Copes With Odell Beckham Jr Being Hurt")





	recovery

**Author's Note:**

> god i need to stop cope-writing eli/odell fic because i swear to GOD its gonna bite me in the ass one day. (today is not that day.)  
> sorry about the delay in content ive been dreading hitting fic #5 for them and singlehandedly putting them on the ao3 visibility map. also, please, i cant stop thinking about [this picture](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DHD9m4HUQAA-hPy.jpg) so you should look at their real life love
> 
> heads up: this is long and completely, embarrassingly self-indulgent. forgive my inability to write smut of any kind.

Miracle is an understatement. Watching the footage back—watching the helmet collide brutally with number 13’s firmly-planted leg—it’s terrifying, it makes Eli recoil in horror just watching it on his tablet the next day. He thanks every possible factor that it turned out to be nothing more than a sprain, because for a horrifying moment on the field, watching Odell knelt on the turf, crouching next to him only to hear him gasping in pain, he thought it was over. All of it. It made him a little sick and adjusting to the next play had been difficult.

But the game is over. Done. In the books. Preseason is preseason, and they’re halfway through, and now the two of them—Eli and Odell—are together in the team’s hotel, in the quarterback’s room because it’s a little bit bigger and a little less crowded. (Odell bunks with Brad during camp, while E’s enough of a veteran to warrant his own space.) The receiver is currently propped up on several fluffed up pillows, thanks to the hotel staff, both of his legs resting on Eli’s lap as he sits off the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“E,” Odell starts, a laugh bubbling around the edges of his voice, “you just asked me that 20 minutes ago.” He bounces the injured leg for show, exaggeration. “I’m fine. Promise. I wouldn’t lie about that.” His words don’t wipe the concern off of Eli’s face, though, and it’s starting to stress Odell out a little bit, how worried he somehow manages to make the most collected quarterback in the league’s history. “Eli, please. Don’t worry. Okay?” Reaching out, he grabs one of Eli’s hands just sitting on the bedspread and twines his fingers with it, squeezing a little to divert the worried look. Odell watches as Eli’s entire face softens upon seeing their hands, and he releases the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

“You know I worry.” His voice is a little raspy, which sends an involuntary chill up Odell’s spine. Eli doesn’t notice. “And I just—I can’t help but think, you know, I did this. At least a little. I should’ve—I should’ve thrown a more accurate pass, or picked a different route, because now you’re here with a sprained ankle and it all could’ve been avoided and I just.” He exhales. “I’m sorry, is what I’m getting at.” He pulls their twined hands to his lips and presses a soft kiss to Odell’s knuckles. The shiver returns. “’m sorry for doin’ that, O.” There’s the drawl—Odell has to shake his head and pull their hands apart for a moment to regain his composure because he _knows_ Eli knows the drawl gets him going.

“Hey.” He cups his quarterback’s chin, lifts it so that they’re eye-to-eye. “You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for.” He’d tell Eli that they’d made that same play a hundred times before, in practice and out on the field, season after season for almost four years, and that it was just a freak (albeit painful) collision that didn’t have anything to do with the play—but they’ve been doing this for _years_. Odell knows Eli. He knows that Eli’s still going to blame himself, even if he tells Odell he won’t. The man has had the sturdiest shoulders in New York since 2004, and that means putting everything on them because he knows he won’t break. So instead of that—instead of using logic or reason to try and coax Eli out of blaming himself for this minor setback—Odell just grins at his quarterback. “’sides. Don’t you want to play doctor?”

At that, Eli laughs. It’s quiet and throaty and Odell can still hear the wheels of worry turning in his voice, but it’s softened. “Really, O? You wanna…” He trails off, but his eyes flicker in that way that means trouble. Odell feels a little breathless at the sight. Without another word, Eli gingerly lifts the younger man’s ankle, so that it’s about halfway to his face, and presses a delicate kiss just above his calf. He pauses—looks up. Smiles that god damn Eli smile, one that sends another chill down Odell’s back, and then kisses a line up his knee all the way to his thigh. He looks ridiculous, lying underneath not one but _both_ of O’s legs and half-sprawled on top of him anyway, but his smile feels nice against Odell’s suddenly-burning skin.

“E…” Odell’s voice is barely a sigh, and he moves to cradle his quarterback’s head in one hand. Eli deftly maneuvers out from underneath Odell’s legs and sidles up next to him, trying too hard to lounge and be cool. O giggles.

“Tell me, Odell…where does it hurt?” E’s voice has taken on a mock-serious tone, and it makes Odell laugh harder, if only for a few moments. But he won’t lie—the shift in tone has him a little hot and bothered, and he shifts on the bed so that he’s in a better position. He bends his knee, maybe a little gingerly for his own sake, and points to it, pouting at Eli and batting his lashes. Odell can see the shadow of worry that crosses his face, and for a moment, he considers dropping the flirtatious act to sit his man down once and for all to convince him he’s _fine_. But it passes quicker than he thought it would—E kisses the spot that O had been pointing at, lips lingering a little bit. (Odell feels an eyelash, too, against his skin, as if Eli is trying to tell Odell with every part of him that he’s _here_ , he’s _here_.) He dramatically lifts his head, breaking his pseudo-character for a moment by forcing back a grin, and Odell smiles so hard he feels like his face is going to split in half. “There. Better?”

“Better.” He reaches out to touch Eli again, to rest a hand somewhere so that he doesn’t have to miss his warmth. “But doc…” He pauses, looks down bashfully. He knows Eli’s gaze is hot on him, can feel the heat of his quarterback’s longing. He didn’t miss the way E’s eyes had darkened. “I still hurt.”

“Oh?” Eli raises an eyebrow. “Show me where else it hurts.” Odell lifts his left arm and points to his elbow. He swallows another giggle as E looks at him in mock-disbelief. Nevertheless, the quarterback leans over and presses his lips to Odell’s left elbow, sure to drag his stubble lightly against the sensitive skin to make Odell shift underneath him. Though his lips pull away after a moment, Eli doesn’t move—he’s hovering over Odell, warm and relaxed and _there_ , and it’s like taking painkillers because he feels lighter than air as he somehow manages to point to his jaw. Odell feels like his hand is shaking. Wordlessly, Eli gently pulls his hand back and presses his lips against O’s cheek. He doesn’t move again, though his lips don’t move either this time, pressing unhurried kisses to the same spot like he’s actually trying to heal him. (Doesn’t he know he already has?) Odell turns his head slowly and relishes the feeling of Eli’s five-o-clock shadow against the bare skin of his cheek before slipping into Eli’s now-rhythmic kisses. There’s no urgency in it—despite the blunt suggestion of playing doctor, Odell doesn’t actually want to play like that right now. Midday sunlight is spilling through the thin beige curtains and he’s wearing a really, _really_ terrible combination of Supreme and Under Armour and honestly, all he really, really wants to do right now is kiss Eli.

From the steadiness of Eli’s rhythm, as well as their almost superhuman connection, Odell can tell that Eli feels the same. His heart hammers in his chest again, and he pulls Eli a little closer, both his hands on the quarterback’s cheeks. Slow, smooth, languid—kisses that are thought out, planned, like they’re going over a familiar route from the playbook instead of relishing each-others’ company in the middle of a stress-free afternoon.

Eli pulls back first, humming softly as they part. “Hey O.” Odell doesn’t know how to respond, too dazed to think more than a few words at a time. He makes a noise in response, eyes lidded, chest warm in all the ways he loves. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Doc,” Odell replies after a moment. He smiles a little, listening to the noise he hears somewhere deep in Eli’s throat. It’s a little intoxicating, to be frank, and he’s not sure he’s even going to be able to hear the question because he’s so completely consumed. Somewhere along the way his hands have fallen from the quarterback’s face, leaving him bracketed by Eli’s strong, slightly-veiny ( _god_ ) arms. He leans down, so that his lips brush lightly against Odell’s once more.

“Are you okay?”

Odell exhales dramatically, and Eli chuckles, neither of them moving. Their noses bump as Odell leans forward. “Yeah, E. I think I am.” A smile to follow. Eli’s hands are big, big like his own, and he shifts so he can hold himself up with one hand while cradling Odell’s jaw and urging him closer with the other. Their lips touch ever-so-slightly, E’s fingers twined in the bleach-blond curls that have become his defining look. But they don’t dive into another slow kiss—no, because even though Odell leans in for it like a good boy, Eli has other plans. He leans away, tucks his chin so that Odell’s stretch ends up in vain. His beard just barely brushes against Eli’s five-o-clock shadow.

Eli _tsk_ s, shaking his head slowly. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice a little gravelly from proximity. “I’m so lucky…” He doesn’t say anything else, just watches Odell’s face, eyes wandering down to his lips. “Just be patient, baby, I promise…” the sentence trails off and E’s gaze has drifted now to O’s palm, facing upward on the soft gray of the hotel comforter. Carefully, he grabs Odell’s wrist and moves it, extends his arm so that he’s almost spread-eagle beneath him. The blunt edge of his nails rake lightly against Odell’s skin for a moment, and he shivers, drawing Eli’s attention back for a moment.

“You ready?” He purrs. Odell, beneath him, shifts, the slight twinge in his knee completely forgotten about as he looks Eli’s toned body bracketing his own from above. He nods.

“’m ready.” His own voice comes out a little more husky and rough than he’d intended, but who is he kidding, this is _Eli_ he’s talking about. He always gets like this—always gets a little antsy, a little growly when he’s about to get the fucking of his life. This is no exception. Eli’s hands are gentle at the hem of his shirt, helping him peel away the fabric, and his expression is warm, one that Odell would live in if it were possible. His lips are parted a little as he looks the wide receiver up and down, but doesn’t say anything, just moves so that Odell can peel his shorts away.

Right now, though, Eli surprises him. Most afternoons the two of them spend in the team hotel usually end up at the door, O taking it as E presses his back to the cool wooden frame, gives it to him so hard neither of them can walk for a solid two hours. Today, though, seems different—Eli doesn’t shed his layers of clothing or have the same dark twinkle in his eye. Instead, as Odell lies bare-naked beneath him, he just smiles softly down at him and then…leans down to kiss at the pulse-point of his wrist. His tongue brushes against O’s hot skin and Odell can’t help the sigh of pleasure that spills from his lips. Eli doesn’t stop. He mouths lightly, more of a graze than an actual kiss, murmuring sweet nothings with that damned southern gentleman drawl.

“Eli…” He doesn’t say anything else, though, and Eli stops his kisses to rest his head in Odell’s open palm for a moment or two. It’s a simple gesture, one that really shouldn’t surprise the younger man since they’ve been doing this for lord knows how long, but it still takes O’s breath away, and he feels his chest tighten as Eli lifts his head to kiss up his arm. His tongue traces a pattern on O’s bicep, one of the countless works of art stitched on his body—E’s teeth dig into the fleshier parts of his muscle, but the swipe of his tongue cools the stinging almost immediately. As usual, he’s taking his time—Eli has never been one to rush things, even in the pocket with their less-than-stellar offensive line, and the bedroom is no exception. However, it feels somehow slower, more languid than normal.

“You’re perfect,” the quarterback mumbles, his face now half-buried in the crook of Odell’s neck. His kisses haven’t been aggressive or biting, nothing desperate or hungry about them, and here is no exception, even though they both know that Odell likes to be bruised, likes Eli to use his hands like this. O lifts his head, tilts it to the side to expose more skin for Eli to reach, which he thankfully obliges to. “Beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful and all _mine_ ,” he continues. His right hand is settled comfortably at O’s bare hip, so when he squeezes lightly, Odell’s body comes alive and he half-jerks upwards at the sudden contrasting pressure.

“Christ, _E_ ,” he grunts, and Eli shushes him with his lips for a moment, kisses the gasp right off his tongue, leaving O breathless as his boyfriend quickly moves on to another body part. He settles for Odell’s left side, now, pressing a set of matching kisses to his other wrist, lathering each side with equal affection. Odell would be overwhelmed if it weren’t Eli.

It’s part of their connection he likes to imagine is some kind of yin-yang symbol. (He once alluded to this in an instagram post from what feels like a lifetime ago, a concept close to his heart.) There’s something so natural about the way things work with Eli. Sure, he’d been throwing passes with him since he was sixteen-ish, which certainly helps their on-field chemistry. But there’s something intimate about the way they know each other, something that’d developed even _before_ he’d kissed Eli in that post-week-7 victory two years before. No words are required when they discuss things—Odell feels like he knows every emotion he sees on Eli’s face like it’s his _own_ , like they’re linked somehow on another plane of existence. Odell is reckless and wild and loud, and though Eli is the opposite, he acts as the opposing, completing force; as Eli draws another breathy sigh from him just with his teeth against the inside of his bicep, O is reminded of this, feeling the ebb and flow of the energy between them curling in Eli’s favor.

“How do you feel, baby?” Eli’s voice is breathy as he looks up at Odell’s face. His expression is somehow calm _and_ earnest at the same time, a talent only he seems to be able to have. Odell, despite the building wave of arousal starting to rear its head and claw at his insides, feels impossibly light and good. He opens his mouth to talk but his growing erection brushes against the worn-in fabric of Eli’s khakis, and the thought dissipates on his tongue, turning into a soft, desiring moan. “That good, huh? I’m better at this than I thought,” he hums aloud.

Odell somehow manages to find control of his tongue again. “Don’t be cocky, Elisha,” he half-gasps, and he can _feel_ the way Eli shivers as Odell says his name. There’s something electric suddenly, something that’s emerged from the slow, leisurely rhythm they’d been lingering in. Eli’s movements are slow as he returns to his original hovering position, but there’s a palpable difference his eyes, now. It makes Odell anxious in the best way, suddenly needing him even though he’d been content to just kiss, just roll around before. Wordlessly, he raises both his hands to the back of Eli’s head, twists his fingers in his (admittedly thinning) dark hair, opens his mouth to ask for it like he knows Eli likes—

“Please.” Eli’s voice is still scratchy and half-drawl when he speaks, sudden and low, and Odell is surprised when the word leaves his lips, especially considering how he’s been the one working O up and not the other way around. But he knows—he knows exactly what Eli’s asking for, what he wants. He wordlessly turns over, kicking the pillow he’d been using to prop up his leg and waiting as he hears Eli fumbling a little at his clothing before pressing on top of him, his chest fitting snugly against O’s back for a few endless moments. He can feel Eli’s cock against him, too, hard (like his own) and pressing hot against his lower back. That feeling of intoxication comes back in a fast wave, one that almost drowns him, and he’s so caught up in the moment that he barely feels Eli’s arms wrapping him in a tender embrace. His lips find the back of his shoulder. Odell resurfaces.

“E….” He feels the rumble of a growl building in Eli’s chest, feels the intake of breath as Eli, somewhere outside of his body, lubes his fingers up. He’s so close though—so close O thinks he can count the beats of his heart, the way it’s practically nestled up to his spine. He arches back into Eli for a moment, feeling Eli slip against his chest from sweat and anticipation, a silent _I’m ready, I’m okay_ to parallel his jokes from what feels like hours before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, this reminds him of practice, of warm-ups where the two of them exchange one glance before performing some miraculous play for a crowd to cheer for. Right now, every nerve in Odell’s body is screaming for that exchange, for that miracle. He buries his face in the pillow and pushes back up against Eli, starting to get antsy. Impatient. The quarterback hums softly, squeezes him gently in comfort and acknowledgement.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Eli murmurs. (O can feel every word, every syllable: E’s lips are still pressed against his skin, hot and wet, and god is it hard to be patient when he’s got all this waiting for him.) And he does—as arguably the most clutch quarterback to play the game in the past few decades, he knows exactly how to steady Odell into a rhythm that both of them are ready for. (He knows he could dial it up, like O likes, but he also knows that the hit he took Monday night wasn’t one to take lightly, and god knows he’s not going to sideline his starting receiver because of a few too-aggressive thrusts.) Eli kisses down Odell’s spine as he rocks into him, dragging his teeth every so often to contrast the feather-light pattern he traces with his tongue. Odell gasps. His fingers twist in the fabric of their hotel’s terrible bedspread and for a moment, right before the two of them climax, O closes his eyes and just lets go completely. Eli’s body is hot and pressed against his own, a little sticky from the sweat between them, and every point where they’re touching feels like being burned in the best way possible. He can’t even hear himself moan the burning is so strong—like bruising, like being tattooed, like they’re slowly being molded into one person point by point and Odell can feel every second of it.

“E—I’m, god, I’m gonna—” He can’t finish his sentence because, almost like he’d known Odell was going to say it, one of Eli’s calloused hands reaches down and pumps him once, twice, three times. Odell whites out.

(He doesn’t remember the earth-shattering moan that leaves his lips, doesn’t remember Eli chanting his name soft in his ear like a prayer, doesn’t remember being slowly worked down until he’d felt spent and raw and whole all at once.)

He blinks back into reality around the same time that Eli rolls over onto the bed next to him, chest heaving. Sweat coats his forehead like they’d just run laps in practice. He’s beaming, though—something almost blinding. It catches him a little off-guard: even though they’ve been together for a while, through some pretty brutal and unfortunate events, it still surprises Odell to see his man so openly elated about anything. It’s a good surprise, of course—but a surprise nonetheless. He channels all of his remaining energy into rolling onto his side, the painful twinge in his leg (and now, his groin, though for remarkably different reasons) returning quietly as he readjusts to face Eli.

“Wow.” It’s all he can think to say on a moment’s notice, and Eli laughs brightly, exhausted but amused. Odell flushes, dragging a hand down his face to hide his flustered expression. But when he opens his eyes again, Eli’s smile has softened into something a lot less overwhelming but nonetheless breathtaking. Odell’s heart rises in his throat if for no other reason than that weary smile.

“’m glad you’re okay,” he mumbles, reaching a hand out so his knuckles brush lightly against Odell’s warm cheeks. He leans into the touch. “And I love you. But you knew that.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll ever get tired of hearing it,” Odell replies, voice and competence finally returning to him. Eli doesn’t say anything, just bites his lip for a moment or two while gazing at the younger man lying next to him. “I love you too, E. Thank you for worryin’ about me.”

“Always,” he answers immediately, voice soft but a little steely. It makes O tremble, sometimes, when he thinks about how much Eli cares. He feels like his heart is going to fall out of his chest. “Hey. You gotta get cleaned up, yeah? Got some physical therapy to get to if we want you back on the field in Dallas.”

Odell opens his mouth to respond, but in following the afternoon’s pattern, he’s cut off as Eli deftly leaps out of bed and scoops him into his arms. “ _Eli_!”

“You’re injured, O, I can’t let you walk to the showers by _yourself_.” Though he grunts as he starts to walk to the bathroom, Odell laughing while sitting bridal-style in his arms. “Though, _jesus_. You did put a lot of muscle on this offseason, huh?”

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Never. Just—” he grunts again, though they make it through the bathroom doorframe unharmed. “Just glad to have more to hold onto.”

Odell laughs in disbelief, putting that same goofy smile back on Eli’s face. “You’re _nasty_ , man.”

“You love it.” Eli sets him down gingerly in front of the barely-big-enough-for-one shower and turns on the water, waiting for it to steam before helping O step in. As the water hits the two of them, tucked close together and halfheartedly attempting to soap each other in between languid kisses, Odell thinks about it.

“I guess I do.”


End file.
